Irish Whiskey
by ThemThereEyes
Summary: It was shear joy flowing through them, and freedom, real honest to god freedom - a story of Sybil and Tom's short life together in Ireland, and at Downton.


They're not my characters, and I promise not to harm them... much.

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She could not stop fiddling with her earring, even after it started feeling like the ear was becoming a hot shade of red, but she didn't care- or maybe she did. She'd never had a nervous tic before, never even sucked her thumb, bit her nails, or twirled her hair. Edith bit her nails until she was almost 12, but when nanny found some bitter solution and painted what was left in Edith's stubby nail beds, that was the end of that offensive habit. However, today- today she'd developed this horrid nervous tic almost on par with Edith's childhood proclivity for gnawing away at her hands.

They'd embarked on their journey two months, two weeks, and six days ago. The memory of the slap, and the sting of the sea air on her face as she'd dragged him out of the ferries main cabin, and out onto the wind swept deck is still sharp in her mind. Her senses were accosted with the sound of the boat cutting through the waves, the bite of the salty sea air in her nose, and the feeling of Tom's calloused hand holding fast to hers. She thinks back on the sight of his hat getting blown off and him chasing it down the weather bleached planks, nearly tripping into some poor woman's lap as she'd sat on a bench staring off at the staggering blue, green, and grey waves rolling past. He'd practically sauntered back, hat in hand to her standing by at a railing, he'd stayed straight faced until they were less than a meter apart, and then his face broke into a giant grin that seemed to spread from ear to ear, his blue eyes sparkling in the mid afternoon sunlight peaking through the grey clouds above. He didn't seem to care who was around or where they were in that moment, for he reached for her right then and kissed her for all he was worth, fellow passengers be damned. Letting go of each other for breath minutes later, they'd burst out laughing- it was shear joy flowing through them, and freedom, real honest to god freedom.

She tugged on her ear once more, feeling the lobe start to sting- and then Mary walked into the room. Mary was never one for demonstrative acts, so she was surprised when her eldest sister literally grabbed her hand as it was about to continue the abuse.

"Darling, I know you're nervous- but you're going to take your ear off if you don't stop." She'd continued clutching the offending hand, and told her to breathe.

After disembarking the ferry in Dublin that windy day not so long ago, but long enough for details she thought she'd always remember had started to fade at the edges. For one: She couldn't remember what she'd had for breakfast that morning, or if she wore her grey suit, or her black suit, she does know for a fact that they'd been met by Tom's friend Sean, whom Tom had been at school with up until he'd ended his studies. _Tom_, _Tom_... _**Tom**_. She consciously had to remind her self to think of him by his first name from now on. However, in all honesty, for years she'd thought of him as Tom, and then corrected herself mentally nearly every time always thinking _"Branson, his name is __**Branson**__. But, no... it's not, that's silly, his name is Tom."_ It was a war waged in secret, and when she had asked him the night of their failed elopement as he'd settled behind the wheel, if he might have had the same issue, he'd answered in the best way she could have possibly imagined. Reaching for her hand, he kissed her palm so gently, then admitted in his husky voice, whilst looking into her eyes with such hope and honesty "yes... every day, Sybil. _Every_. _Single_. _Day_." It made her shiver at the memory when ever it would come up unwitting during her days now in Ireland. Come to think of it, she'd shivered that first time as well.

Mary was still holding her hand even as Edith knocked on the door.

"They're ready for you." She said quietly, her head peaking around the frame, then looking her over with appraising eyes, Edith admitted something Sybil had never thought she'd ever hear from either of her sisters, "Sybil, you look beautiful." Edith practically beamed, her eyes taking on a glassy sheen, "Mama would be so pleased." She'd ducked out then, but not before Mary and her had seen Edith run her gloved hand under one eye, wiping a wayward tear away.

Mary broke the reverie sighing into her unoccupied hand.

"She's _such_ a booby."

"She's is, but she's _our_ booby." Sybil said almost whimsically. To which Mary sighed again in resigned agreement.

No one walked her down the aisle, and not simply because her father was absent, she was an independent, and worldly woman, she didn't need to be _given_ away, nobody owned her. At least that's what she kept telling her self.

Before she knew it the ceremony was over, and she was glad for it. She'd been to too many weddings where hymns were read, chorales sang, and speeches were made, and they always seemed to go on for much too long. Too much pomp and circumstance- and Tom and her had agreed that their wedding would have none of that. Besides, to them a ceremony was just a formality, the church, the dress, the smart suit he had dawned, that she had to admit he looked extremely handsome in, and the guests were just appeasement to whatever shades of tradition they could abide. They were not a couple of the last century, they were a couple of the new one, the twentieth one. Who knows, maybe she'd become the bread winner, and he'd stay at home and write. She could cut her hair into that boyish cut Mary had almost threatened to take on, she could start wearing trousers at home, drinking whiskey too. She almost laughed at the last thought, remembering several weeks before when they were still back at Downton, a night she snuck down to the garage for what she had planned on being a brief visit.

She made her way in the dark, but she could see the light from his cottage through the open back door of the garage. His cottage was behind and off centre to the building, actually the garage was a converted carriage house, and the cottage was a newer addition to the property, 1880's perhaps, when the property had been in one of its proper hay-days, and the Crawley's employed two grooms instead of their current singular, and had double the amount of horses as well. Now the cottage housed Tom, and Sybil thought not only was he lucky enough to not have to endure most of the dramas that occurred inside the house, he had the luxury of utilising the electric light Papa had had the cottage installed with when the big house was wired up as well. She'd made her way between the Royce and the Renault, and boldly walked up to his closed front door. She knocked knowing she was likely the only one he would expect at this hour, nearly past eleven pm- he'd have dropped off her grandmother not a half hour before hand. That or it was some sort of emergency order for the motor, in that case the lack of urgency in her knock would likely tell him it wasn't that sort of call.

He came to the door in his shirtsleeves, collar undone, shirt unbuttoned, his vest and tie missing. His hair was losing its tidiness, his fringe falling over his forehead, a semi unruly mess of straight dark blond hair, she liked the state of wildness it was trying to reach, she had to admit. She looked down at her own attire- a demure navy dress in silk with details of French lace, the dangling black pearl earrings she wore shook as she took a breath. Then he was holding the door open for her, looking tired but pleased to see her, his eyes felt like they were eating her up though, they hadn't seen each other in two days. Mary and Edith playing Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum watch-dogs, only they'd lacked the interest tonight for some unknown reason- and she was able to sneak away from the house undetected.

"Milady..." He'd waved her in like she'd come to his cottage every evening- but really it was only the second time since their failed elopement several weeks prior.

"Thank you." She'd said in mock formality.

Once the door was closed she wasn't sure what to do with herself, true she'd been in his rooms before, but tonight there was something different about him. That's when she noticed the open bottle of amber brown liquid on his practical writing desk in the corner of his modest sitting room, a hanging bookcase he'd likely purchased himself was practically bursting over the top of it, and the case next to it wasn't fairing too well either, actually it seemed to sag with the weight of his many volumes. God knows why she'd only just noticed the number of books he owned, perhaps it was the realisation that he likely wasn't entirely sober, meaning she was the only one in the room with all of their wits intact. Nervous wasn't the emotion coming over her though, it had to be excitement. She'd never witnessed him intoxicated before, and she was almost reluctant to admit that the relaxed ere about him the alcohol likely brought about, was appealing to her more than she'd expected.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, milady?" He'd practically bowed, it was borderline humorous.

"Exactly how much have you had to drink, Mr Branson?" If they were going to continue this charade of formality when she could clearly make out some of his chest hair peaking out over the top of the undone portion on his shirt, and she was in fact in a servants quarters, a **bachelor's** servants quarters in the middle of the night more like- she may as well tack on the ever formal mister to his name.

"Enough." He said, walking to the desk, he picks up the bottle and fingering it lightly in his right hand, he seems to peer at the label like it's in a foreign language.

"Would you like some, milady?" He didn't slur his speech she noted, that had to be a sign that he wasn't as drunk as she originally suspected.

She thought about it for a second or two, then walked up to a stuffed sitting chair next to his third bookcase which was also full of books.

"I would." She said, sitting in the chair waiting expectantly for him to bring her the drink he'd so graciously offered.

He seemed taken aback that she'd agreed, his face was practically a mirror image of the look he'd had the night she'd accepted his proposal, and he'd kissed her for the first time.

"Don't be so surprised- I have had a few drinks in my life." She purposefully left off a moniker, their banter was starting to lose its ere of formality anyway, she _was_ sitting down in his chair, he _was_ half drunk- it _was_ nearly midnight, they _were_ alone.

"As you wish..." He blinked, and the look of disbelief was gone.

He wandered over to the small galley kitchen in the corner of the main floor, after dropping the bottle back on his desk, and sauntered back holding an empty tumbler. He made quick work of setting the glass down, and pouring two fingers worth of the liquid. She'd realised then that she had no idea what it was he was pouring, and as he handed it off to her their fingers brushed each other, and that spark she'd always tried to ignore when they'd touched over the years was still there. However, instead of suppressing it she acknowledged it and looked him directly in the eyes as he slowly backed away. She didn't break their gaze even as she brought the glass to her lips and took a sip. It burned, that's all she knew as the liquid went down her throat. She tried not to cough, but her body betrayed her. She bent forward and coughed into her hand, her un-gloved hand, she'd actually left her gloves in her bedroom when she decided to sneak down here to see him.

"All right?" He asked as she sat back up, and closed her eyes trying to catch her breath.

"Never better, but first..." He waited for her to finish as she caught her breath once more, "what am I destroying my insides with exactly?" She couldn't conceal the lilt of laughter in her voice, and the smile that broke across his face was down right infectious.

"Why, my dear lady it's Irish whiskey straight from one of the fine stills in fair Dublin." He tipped back on his heels in some semblance of pride, his wide grin could make a mime laugh.

"Is this a recent purchase, or did you order it in the post, and now you're finally cracking it open in some sort of celebration?" She takes another tentative sip, and continues, "or, perhaps was it a gift from an admirer, in that case- should I be worried?" She teased him, as his hands made their way into his pockets, a stance she'd seen him adopt more times than she could count. He snorted, which felt like the opposite of a confirmation. She was sure he'd had to have admirers, she'd spent years rebuking herself for letting her mind wander to him, or letting her eyes pass over the curve of back of his neck as he drove her some place.

"Ha, I've had this bottle since I journeyed here from home, and there's nothing to celebrate today- this was simply liquid Ireland in a glass to remind..." he trailed off whilst looking into his glass, then pulling his desk chair across from her, a safe distance though, always a safe distance ever since they returned from the outskirts of Scotland, he sat down.

"Remind you of what?"

"That we make good things, that we **are** good, that this recipe is near ancient and can never be recreated elsewhere, the ingredients only available in Ireland, and as long as that still is in existence. Also that if I had imbibed enough I'd have the courage to pour a glass, and bombastically toss it into your grandmother's smug face." He then drained his glass in one swallow, and slammed it into the floor as he leaned over to place it there.

"My grandmother? You'd like to toss a glass of whiskey in my grandmother's face... what ever for?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, and took a breath. She could almost picture mechanical gears working in his head like a clock, trying to formulate the right words to say.

"You're grandmother is impossible, you know that?" He let out in a bluster, then pulling his chair closer in to her, not exactly his most eloquent of sentences she had to admit.

"Granny, what could she possibly have done?"

He leaned back again and started in.

"It's not so much what she did, but what she said." His voice taking on a biting clipped tone.

"No doubt it was some condescending barb, laced with her keen sense of entitlement, and a generous amount of insensitivity, and ignorance?" She supplied him with.

He sat forward in his chair this time, she could smell the whiskey on his breath, but his eyes were clear and focused.

"You know her all too well..." He nodded.

"What was it this time?" She waited, eyes intent on his face.

"Oh, just a deluge of conservative rhetoric, about how the Irish have no business running their own country, and they, _we,_ should be grateful for all the privileges and opportunities being part of Great Britain affords. In all honesty she made the Irish people sound like a lot of ungrateful children, squabbling in the school yard over jacks and balls." He fumingly spat out.

"_Classic_ Granny." She agreed, sitting back in his soft chair, eying him as he scowled, his adorable scowl, she'd never tell him that though.

Along with dropping off Granny that night, Tom had also been appointed with the delivery, at Downton's train depot, of a visiting Baron whom prided himself in his knowledge of the goings on of Britain's far reaching empire, along with its tethering and squeezing fingers all the way in Ireland's largest cities. He was powerful, and a remarkably ignorant self righteous individual, pompous is the word he encompassed really.

"I gather you witnessed an exchange between Baron Ainsley and Granny tonight, is that it?" Sybil queried.

He nodded, and looked down at his hands seemingly in deep thought.

"Some of the time I really do believe that they think we don't exist." She wasn't certain if he meant them as individual people, the Irish, or _servants_. So she asked, "we?"

"The lot of us, as if the motor is driving its self, or the tea arrives in the morning by a magical fairy with gold tipped wings who has not a thought or a care in the world, except to serve her every beck and call." He leans forward in his chair once more and takes the glass of whiskey she still holds, and places it on the floor out of the way, then takes up both her hands in his. She notices his tapered fingers, and the differences in the colour of their skin.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this, Sybil." He admits, she can plainly see and hear how exhausted he is, how much this life is taking out of him, the listening without acknowledging he can hear every single word, the being invisible except when needed, not being allowed to be a whole person. All she can say to him though is, "soon, Tom- soon this will all be a memory." She gently squeezes his hands and closes the distance between them, brushing her lips over his lightly, she waits for him to respond. He does in kind, breaking his hold on her hands, he cups her cheek with one hand, and deepens the kiss. She sighs and relishes in the warmth of his mouth, the hitch of his breath. His hand soon travels from her face, to her waist, where he pulls her in even closer to him. Their knees bump together, and he gives up on sitting across from her, standing to his full height, he coaxes her from her seat as well. She closes her eyes and stands there, so close to him, breathing heavily. She can feel the heat from his body he's so near.

"Sybil," he says her name, whispers it actually, "open your eyes."

She does, and looks him right in the eyes. His pupils are dilated, she examines his reddened face, and notices his own breathing. The rise and fall of his chest is almost in tandem with hers. He isn't touching her now, but it feels like he is just with the way he is looking at her, her eyes, her mouth, and further down. Finally he does touch her again, placing both his hands on her waist, he tugs her in, and instead of kissing her on her lips, he kisses her cheek, drags his mouth across and by her ear, down her neck where he nibbles, and licks, and sucks. She sighs at the sensations, the roughness of his evening beard, the heady feeling of her own blood rushing through her veins, and pounding in her ears. She'd never imagined it all, how do you imagine this if all you knew before were vague musings until moments ago? She places her own hand on his head, and finally gives in to the desire she always had to muss his hair. She brushes her fingers through his locks and caresses his scalp as he makes his way from her neck to the delicate dip of her collar, he's laving at her clavicle, and his hand on her waist has roamed down and down, cupping her bottom, and pulling her in even more, and all she could think is- _more, I want more_.

Moving her unoccupied hand to his own collar, she fingers the stiff fabric, then reaching the buttons, she starts to undo the rest of his shirt gradually exposing his chest. Tom pulls back and shrugs it off, and they both simply stand there trying to stifle their laboured breathing. She doesn't try and hide her taking in the full expanse of his chest and lower, his broad shoulders, the jut of his hip bones peaking out at the top of his trousers, the light brown hairs scattered in partial even lines and clumps that end in a trail half way to his stomach. His skin is pale, milky, she wonders for a moment or two if it is smooth, and if the hair on his body is as soft as the hair on his head, if she's even allowed to just reach out and touch him? Then she realises she **is** allowed, this only comes to her though when he steps up, cups her jaw finely in both of his hands, leans in, and whispers her name in her ear with such desire, such eroticism, that she shudders as his breath seems to linger, and waft past her ear, and down her neck. He lets his hands fall to her shoulders, and they stay there until she takes his cue. Tentatively she places her fingers tips above his navel, gently touching him, his hands drop, and he let's her explore. She slowly runs her palms up the centre of his chest, stopping right over his heart, she delights in discovering that his chest hair is soft, coarser yes, than the hair on his head, but it still runs smoothly under her hands. She can feel his heart beating rapidly, its beating then reminds her abruptly of the fact the his heart isn't normal, but she feels nothing but a steady yet fast paced rhythm.

"It doesn't feel defective." She whispers, her hands spread over his pectoral muscles.

God knows why they keep whispering, they're as alone as they've ever been, minus being miles away from anyone they ever knew in that inn near Scotland.

"It must be, it fell in love with someone it never was supposed to." He whispers this as well, she hears the tease in his voice before she deciphers it on his face.

"Best get you down to Doctor Clarkson's surgery, have him do a full work up. Find out why the blasted organ did such a horrendously ill-advised thing."

"Sybil?" He whispers again.

"Yes, Tom." She answers.

"Kiss me." She's not one for taking commands, but this is one she gladly takes.

He meets her half way, and this kiss does not begin like the others, which mostly all began as light brushings at first. This one starts out strong like their very first, and continues to increase in intensity. Soon they're pushed up against each other again so tightly they can feel each others hearts beating through their thin layers of clothing, or lack of clothing, as well as every hitch and shake of their breathes. His hands seem to move everywhere, her hair, her shoulders, back, bottom, waist. It's like his fingers are dancing across her clothed body, meeting skin occasionally, which makes her shiver with barely contained shocks of pleasure.

She's new at all of this, opening her mouth to his tongue is still foreign, because almost all kisses she'd ever engaged in before his were chaste to the extreme. Now when she does, she marvels in the feeling of his tongue entangling with her own, massaging, dueling- she's at a loss for verbs and adjectives where it comes to these recent developments in their relationship. However, when he starts to gently probe at her lower lip, she complies with curiosity, and also because it feels natural to do so. He sighs as she opens her mouth to him, and then he's just there, his warm tongue stroking hers, and she's keeping up by going with what feels good, because this all feels so good. She almost surprised with how much she enjoys this new aspect of their relationship. When he delves a little deeper, or flicks his tongue in a certain way, her knees dip, but he catches her bringing her in tighter. Placing a knee between her legs, she knows that what she feels snugly pressed against her stomach is his desire for her. She doesn't even know what to call it at this point, she could be clinical about it, she could be completely base, or she could forget that it needs to be called anything at all and enjoy that he's that aroused simply by their kissing. Granted, their very not timid kissing.

For years she'd tamp down on thoughts that involved him, sometimes the thoughts though would come up heedless, especially when she was tired, or alone on a night shift at the hospital. She'd sit at the nurses station with a single desk lamp, a beacon in a sea of darkness, her mind wandering to more pleasant pastures than keeping track of when she'd have to wake a soldier to administer his pills, or injection, check ones wounds for infection, take another ones temperature, and so on and so forth. There she'd be though, nearly alone in a building always full up with people, her mind falling onto the image of Tom's face. The memory of a conversation, the slope of his shoulders, the line of his neck, the way his dark blond hair would get longer towards the end of the month, because he likely would cut it at the beginning, the view of him she'd become so accustomed to whilst driving her to places. But then her mind would drift back to his face, and then to his mouth, his pink lips, the sight of him licking them, and his voice- she could spend hours thinking on the tenor of his voice, or the baritone on the verge of a tenor, the hoarse gravel of it though, the deep masculine dulcet tone of it. She'd think about him reciting Shakespeare or just reading to her, she knew he could keep her interest simply by speaking, she knew it all too well, because listening to him speak was how she started to get to know him, and then subsequently fall in love with him.

He starts to work on the small buttons that run down the back of her dress, and she doesn't protest, she knows she should, she knows that if she allows him to remove any of her clothing she'll be only a few meagre steps from letting go of everything keeping her from taking that final step with him. God, she wants to take that final step with him.

"Tom." She finally lets out. "Tom, we have to..." He's mouthing her neck so deliciously, it's sending streaks of yearning straight to her core, making her think erratically, and un clearly, "we have to stop," she manages to pull out of his embrace, as well as take a half step back.

They both stand in the centre of the room, the sounds in the room were now only their breathing. She feels flushed, frustrated, and she wishes she had the will not to be proper right now, but she knows that if she lets down that barrier he'd never forgive himself, and she would neither forgive herself. After all, he was the one all those weeks ago who insisted he sleep in that chair at the inn, she was all for them sharing the bed, but no- he may not be a born gentlemen, but his mother raised him to act like one.

"You're right..." He backs away looking equally flushed as she feels. "I'm sorry." He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands now either, so he shuffles stiffly to the spot where his shirt has fallen and moves to put it back on. She stops him, pulling the garment from his hands, tossing it onto his empty stuffed chair. Taking his hands in hers, she leans forward placing a lingering kiss right over his heart.

"Don't ever say you're sorry for the way we are together when we're like this." She implores him, then steps away.

He looks utterly gob-smacked, which is a first she thinks. Finally he does say something.

"I love you Sybil Crawley." He swallows, and looks at her intently.

"I love you Tom Branson," she answers back.

Several minutes later they share a final kiss goodnight, him still shirtless, both still pink cheeked, as well as trying to tame their thrumming heart rates. On her way back up to the house, she refastens the buttons he managed to undo. Entering her bedroom minutes later she leans against the closed door with a smile slowly spreading across her face.

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Author's Note: Hi, this will be continued in possibly one or two more chapters, also I'm American- so if you noticed American grammatical rules being used, that is why. Thank you, have a lovely day.


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